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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27865481">Twenty ways to say I love you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamline/pseuds/dreamline'>dreamline</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The end of infinity with you [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Season/Series 15, So in love it's actually ridiculous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:07:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27865481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamline/pseuds/dreamline</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's never been good at saying how he feels with words. Fortunately Cas speaks fluent Dean these days.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy &amp; Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The end of infinity with you [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2244027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>366</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1-10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>One of my regular bouts of 2am insomnia gave me the image of Cas walking over the snow, treading in Dean's footprints. Things spiralled.</p><p>Rereading this, I keep noticing things that are really British. Maybe this Cas and Dean live in Shropshire and drive around in a classic Jag killing monsters in the UK countryside? (Or maybe I just will never be able to write like an American.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1.</strong>
</p><p>They’re meant to be scoping out the open-air market antique dealers for anything suspicious that looks like it might be to do with their case where people have been killed by their newly purchased antique furniture. Sam suspects some kind of hex being cast by whoever is selling the piece. Dean suggested a pack of poltergeists, but Cas is fairly sure that’s just because he liked the alliteration.</p><p>Dean is somewhere over among the large, free-standing items – wardrobes, bookcases, the occasional desk - poking at an old clock that the seller swears on her <em>life </em>is haunted. Pulling her absurd story out of her is more for fun than because it’s a lead, but it’s making Dean happy so Cas leaves him to it.</p><p>He wanders down a couple of rows of stalls, casting his eyes over the wares without really focusing on them. Over here the vendors are all looking to offload twentieth century junk, nothing near old enough to pique his interest. He’s drawn momentarily by a stall full of vintage books, but he resists with the thought that he already has a to-read pile forty deep he’s barely touched, and Dean keeps making pointed comments about wanting to use his desk for something other than book storage occasionally.</p><p>Towards the end of the row, Cas catches a whiff of something frying and his stomach grumbles. It’s been a long time since breakfast, and even that was grabbed hurriedly in the impala while Dean was driving. Maybe he can pick them something up for lunch. Whatever’s cooking smells like it should be greasy and unhealthy enough to keep Dean cheerful. He pictures Dean’s smile of thanks, the way his eyes will crinkle at the edges, and his feet are turning towards the food stands before he’s even finished making up his mind.</p><p>Halfway to the temptingly rich smell of fried food, he’s most of the way past a stand before he registers what’s on it.</p><p>Plants.</p><p>Cas stops, takes a step back to look. He’s trying to start a garden on the bunker roof, but he hasn’t had much chance to shop for bee-friendly plants lately. Mostly it’s a mess of shrubs and perennials up there right now. He’d really like something colourful.</p><p>The woman behind the stall sees him looking, steps closer and smiles.</p><p>“Hi sweetie, what can I do for you today?” She’s looking at him oddly intently and it throws Cas off his already tenuous grasp of human social interaction.</p><p>“I want to keep bees.” Cas says. It’s a complete non-sequitur, but the stallholder lights up immediately.</p><p>“Oh, do you want some bee-friendly plants? I have lavender and some mahonia right here. Or maybe some bluebells and borage?” She winks at him and Cas blinks, disconcerted. “Those would go so well with your eyes.”</p><p>Cas realises suddenly that she’s trying to flirt with him.</p><p>“The lavender’s nice?” He says cautiously, not quite sure how to move the conversation forward now without just coming out with <em>sorry, you’re sweet but you’re not Dean.</em></p><p>He <em>does </em>like the bluebells though. And the borage is such a pretty blue.</p><p>“Cas, c’mon, Sam’s waiting for us.”</p><p>Dean’s suddenly next to him, so unexpectedly close that Cas jumps. Dean grabs Cas’ hand and immediately strides for the street where they left the car.</p><p>“Sam wants to meet us at the city library,” Dean says as he pulls him along. “He thinks he’s found something relevant in the newspaper archives. If we hurry we can grab some coffee and takeout at the drive thru on the way. We’ll need it, I can feel one of Sam’s five-hour research binges coming a mile off.”</p><p>Dean carries on talking as they walk. Cas listens, follows the tug of Dean’s hand instantly, of course he does, but he can’t help one longing glance back over his shoulder as they walk away.</p><p>***</p><p>Two days, three exorcised wardrobes and one very pissed off necromancer with a talent for binding ghosts into inanimate objects later, they’re finally back in the bunker. Sam’s got bruises up his entire back where he got thrown into a wall (again), so he heads for a shower and bed immediately, muttering something about calling Eileen who’s down in Texas on a hunt of her own.</p><p>Cas came off worse against a flying grandfather clock, and his entire left side aches. Dean’s already done a field assessment and declared him just bruised, which Cas trusts because Dean’s prone to flipping out like Cas is dying when he sneezes these days, but it hurts deep in his flesh and he feels like he can’t draw a proper breath. Dean flutters around him, dosing him with painkillers and helping him into his pyjamas and wrapping him in blankets. Cas would complain, <em>I’m not a</em> <em>child, Dean,</em> but Dean does keep rubbing his hands over Cas’ shoulders and kissing his forehead, his temple, his cheek, and he really doesn’t want Dean to stop.</p><p>Dean makes Cas eat some toast with honey – <em>you haven’t eaten since breakfast Cas, you can’t take painkillers on an empty stomach -</em> tucks Cas into bed. The mattress is so soft and welcoming that Cas is asleep before Dean’s even turned out the lamp.</p><p>When Cas wakes, there’s two small plants on the bedside table. One bluebell and one borage.</p><p>Cas stares up at them, taking in the delicate curl of the leaves, the blue bloom of the flowers. When he reaches up and touches one with a fingertip, the petals curl softly around his fingers.</p><p>He only registers Dean has sat down on the bed next to him when Dean turns the bedside lamp on and leans down and to kiss him on the shoulder.</p><p>“Morning sweetheart,” Dean says.</p><p>Cas rolls over to look at him, so bright and beautiful in the lamplight. “You bought me <em>plants,”</em> he breathes, face breaking into a smile. “How did you know which ones I wanted?”</p><p>Dean shrugs. “I heard you talking to that woman at the market.”</p><p>“Yes, but…” Cas glances back at the flowers. “I didn’t say I wanted those ones.”</p><p>Dean twitches a little, self-conscious. Picks at a thread on his sweats. “I could see you looking. At those. And.” Dean stops, flushes a little.</p><p>Cas tilts his head and Dean stares up at the ceiling, refusing to look down at Cas.</p><p>“Well, she was right.” Dean blushes furiously, beautifully. “They do go with your eyes.”</p><p>Cas stares up at him, watches Dean’s face flame red, his eyes flick down and to the side, his spine stiffen and fingers curl against the blanket.</p><p>It’s only when Dean’s about to brush it off, pick himself up, throw up his walls and leave on the excuse of making breakfast, that Cas finally manages to make himself move.</p><p>He lurches forward, throws his arms around Dean’s neck and pulls him in fiercely against his chest.</p><p><em>“Thank you.” </em>He whispers it into Dean’s neck, fingers clenching tight into Dean’s t-shirt. Dean melts against him instantly, arms sliding up around Cas’ back. He holds him gently, careful of the bruises mottling his skin purple, but the kiss he presses into Cas’ shoulder is hard with intent. Cas shudders against him, grabs his head and pulls him round to kiss him properly.</p><p>It’s a long time before Dean gets up to make breakfast.</p><p>
  <strong>2.</strong>
</p><p>“Since when do we own a waffle maker?”</p><p>Dean glances round. Sam is squinting at the appliance on the side like it’s some new spell he’s never seen before. Dean jerks back to look into the cupboard.</p><p>“Cas likes waffles,” he mutters.</p><p>He can feel Sam looking down at him. Dean studiously stares into the cupboard where he’s supposedly trying to find the flour. It’s behind the sugar on the bottom shelf, Dean knows where every last ingredient is in his kitchen, but he’ll be damned if he turns and looks at Sam right now.</p><p>There’s a long pause.</p><p>“Double up on breakfast, Dean, Eileen likes waffles too.”</p><p>
  <strong>3.</strong>
</p><p>It’s light that wakes him. Soft, blue-white. Shimmering just enough to paint the room in shadows and shades of blue.</p><p>He rolls over. Cas is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, head bowed over his lap. The vial holding his grace rests on his palms, lighting the planes and angles of his face.</p><p>He blinks himself more alert, feels the concern rise inside.</p><p>“I’m fine Dean.”</p><p>Dean never knows how Cas can always tell he’s awake.</p><p>“You promise?”</p><p>That gets him a glance over Cas’ shoulder. Cas’ face is tired, eyes only half-open, but he doesn’t look sad. A little wistful, maybe.</p><p>“I promise.” He smiles oh so faintly, turns back to watch the grace swirl gently against the glass. “I just like to be near this sometimes. It’s nice to have it close.”</p><p>Dean watches him, chest tight with an emotion he’s not sure how to name.</p><p>“Do you ever miss it? Y’know.” Dean swallows. “Being an angel?”</p><p>Cas turns the vial and the light swims around them like water, painting the room in waves.</p><p>“Some things.” Cas nods. “Being able to heal, being able to fly.” His eyes tense a little. “I don’t miss the pain of it, near the end. When my wings were broken and the grace in me wasn’t mine.”</p><p>Dean sits up at that, leans forward to rest his forehead on Cas’ back and wrap his arms around his waist. Cas settles against him, placing his hands atop Dean’s so his grace is tucked between his palms and the back of Dean’s hands.</p><p>“How much did it hurt?” Dean asks cautiously, half wanting to understand Cas pain, half horrified to even think about it.</p><p>“It wasn’t-“ Cas shakes his head abortively. “It’s hard to put words to it, translate it to human sensations. The pain was in my true form, in my wings. It was nothing like the pain of a human body.” He looks down at the glow of grace escaping from their clasped hands. “There’s a disease humans can get. A bacteria. It releases toxins that make a person feel like their flesh is being eaten alive. It’s the closest analogy I can find. Just slower. It was a constant thing, for a long time.”</p><p>Dean hisses a little. His body jerks with the imagined pain of it, the unceasing, grinding agony. “For how long?”</p><p>Cas sighs, almost inaudible. “I hurt from the day I fell. But. Worse after Metatron. After the stolen grace. That was almost more than I could bear sometimes.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t reply. He pulls Cas harder into him, tucks his face into Cas’ neck. He runs his thumb up and down Cas’ stomach under their joined hands. Cas leans his full weight onto Dean and tips his head back to rest on his shoulder. They sit for a while, bathed in the dim, soft light and each other.</p><p>Cas finally breaks the long silence with a turn of his head to breathe in Dean’s ear. “I do miss being able to see your soul.”</p><p>“My…what?” Dean frowns. He always figured his soul must be a painful thing to behold, tarnished with a lifetime of wrong choices and wrongdoing, of mistakes and selfishness and death. But the way Cas talks about it, anyone would think he’s made of starlight.</p><p>“Mmm.” Cas hums, reaches back to smooth his hand over Dean’s head. “I loved looking at it, the colours, the brightness of you. Most humans, when you look for it their soul is a warm light in their chest, behind their eyes. But you, when I looked at you, you were always burning like a star. The colours of your emotions shone so bright under your skin, I couldn’t help but be dazzled.”</p><p>Dean is glad it’s dark because his face feels hotter than the sun. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that, to answer that?</p><p>Cas tightens his fingers in Dean’s hair. “No matter how angry you were with me, part of you always turned gold when you saw me, you always shone a little brighter, like you do around Sam. You were so <em>warm</em>. And sometimes when you touched me, I could hear it inside you, like it was singing to me. I do miss that.”</p><p>Dean chokes on a sob. He grabs Cas by the head, pulls him round and kisses him, hard and desperate. He’s not like Cas, he hasn’t got the words for any of this, but he hopes fiercely that Cas understands what he wishes he knew how to tell him.</p><p>From the way Cas sighs into him, hand scrabbling for purchase on Dean’s hip, clutching his hair, he thinks he does. </p><p>“Will you ever put it back?” Dean whispers when they break apart. Cas’ face is a wonder in the dark, blue reflections of his grace across his eyes bringing back a ghost of the warrior for god that led armies, fought the devil, pulled Dean out of hell. “Be an angel again?”</p><p>“Yes.” Cas says, instant, sure. “But only at the end, so I can stay with you when you go.”</p><p>
  <strong>4.</strong>
</p><p>“Dean, it’s three in the morning.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t look round. Just watches his feet hanging in the air over the edge of the bunker roof. Swings his legs a little.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Why are you on the roof at 3am?” Cas pauses and Dean can <em>hear </em>him shiver. “In March? It’s cold up here.”</p><p>“I know.” Dean repeats. Tightens his grip on the concrete edge.</p><p>There’s a silence. Dean lifts his head to look at the stars. Breathes as slowly as he can. Inhales phantom fire and blood.</p><p>Then there’s a shuffle of footsteps next to him and the thump of a body hitting the floor gracelessly.</p><p>Startled, Dean’s head whips round. Cas is settling himself on the edge, feet hanging next to Dean’s. His eyes are ringed with tired bruises, his hair a disaster. He’s got the blanket from their bed draped around him, over his t-shirt and a pair of Dean’s sweatpants. A little too long in the leg, slightly loose. His boots are untied and he’s not wearing socks. For some reason that tiny fact grips Dean’s gaze for a long moment. Cas didn’t even take the time to tie his shoes, came to find him instead.</p><p>“Cas, you shouldn’t… it’s cold and you’re tired-”</p><p>Cas leans into Dean’s arm, pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.</p><p>“I know.” It could be mocking, the echo of Dean’s own words. Instead it’s just soft. Patient.</p><p>Dean looks down at Cas leaning against him, the tangles of his hair tickling his cheek. He breathes in again and this time all he gets is shampoo, fabric conditioner, a whisper of the whiskey from dinner.</p><p>He drops his forehead onto Cas’ hair. In response Cas takes his hand and twines their fingers together. He rests their joined hands on his thigh and closes his eyes.</p><p>Dean’s heart thumps too hard, too much against his ribs.</p><p>Cas hums a little, quiet and indecipherable, presses his fingertips into the pulse at Dean’s wrist. Dean pushes his head harder against Cas’ hair. Breathes in. Out.</p><p>Sometime soon he’ll get up, pull Cas up with him. Kiss him under the stars, wrap an arm around his waist and walk them back to bed. Until he can find himself enough to do all those things, he leans into the solidity of Cas’ body and lets it ground him, just enough.</p><p>
  <strong>5.</strong>
</p><p>Cas can barely feel his fingers. His face feels almost raw. How can wind be so cold that it cuts like a blade? And <em>how</em> does it always manage to find every gap in clothing, worm inside to stab into his skin? Of all the things humanity has granted him, the ability to suffer from temperature is one that really wishes he could give back.</p><p>He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets, bows his head into the godawful, knifing wind, and trudges grimly through the deepening snow after Dean.</p><p>Several metres ahead Dean is striding forward like he doesn’t even feel the chill, steps easy and confident on the slippery ground. Cas glances up at his back. He can see the tension lining Dean’s shoulders even from here, the stiff set of his back. The way he’s holding his shotgun, across his chest instead of slung easily on his shoulder.</p><p>Still mad then. He shouldn’t have hoped for anything else, considering.</p><p>Cas fixes his gaze on Dean’s boots instead and keeps pushing onwards. His thighs are burning with the uphill effort, the heat of the pain an uncomfortable counterpoint to the frigid air biting into his lungs. Surely it can’t be that much further?</p><p>A steeper slope of hill has him breathing heavier. The air cuts even sharper into the bottom of his chest with every inhale. He coughs, miserable.</p><p>Then walks straight into Dean.</p><p>He startles back a step, head jerking up. He hadn’t even realised Dean had stopped. “Sorry.” He says reflexively.</p><p>Dean ignores him, just grabs him by the shoulders and pulls them round to face each other.</p><p>“Dean, what-”</p><p>He’s cut off by Dean flipping his scarf over Cas’ head. He winds it round Cas’ neck, movements rough and rapid.</p><p>Cas blinks, stares at Dean’s face in astonishment.</p><p>Dean doesn’t look up, eyes focused on his own hands. He’s frowning, eyes still tight and angry at the corners, but his fingers are gentle as he tucks the scarf ends into Cas’ coat.</p><p>Cas can only watch him for a long, hanging moment, throat tight and heart beating hard against his ribs.</p><p>“Don’t you need it?” He eventually says. Somehow his voice comes out level.</p><p>Dean shrugs one shoulder, fastens an extra coat button to hold the scarf in. His fingers linger for a beat longer than he needs, then his hands drop to pick up the gun and he starts walking again.</p><p>“I’m not cold.” He finally replies, without turning his head.</p><p>Cas watches him for a few steps, notes the redness of Dean’s fingers, the slight hunch to his shoulders that give the lie to his words.</p><p>He glances down briefly, face reddening in a way that’s nothing to do with the scrape of the wind, then sets off after Dean over the snow, setting his feet into Dean’s footprints as he goes.</p><p>
  <strong>6.</strong>
</p><p>“You bought me pie.”</p><p>Cas looks up from putting the tinned tomatoes into the cupboard. Dean is supposed to be sorting the bags onto the counter so Cas can put them away. Instead he’s just holding a box and staring at it with a grin on his face.</p><p>“Of course I did.”</p><p>He goes back to stacking groceries. Behind him he hears the gentle thump of the pie box on the worktop.</p><p>“I didn’t ask you to.”</p><p>Cas rolls his eyes, grabs the bag of pasta and goes to put it in its place beside the tins.</p><p>“No, but you <em>always</em> want pie Dean.” He straightens, turns to pick up the potatoes.</p><p>Gets knocked back into the counter. Dean’s arms close around him and squeeze. He sucks in half a startled breath before Dean’s mouth is on his and he’s melting.</p><p>It could be five seconds or five lifetimes before Dean pulls away. He plants one more brief kiss on Cas’ cheekbone then he’s gone, back at the counter sorting groceries like he didn’t just pull all the air out of Cas’ lungs and send him reeling.</p><p>Cas is left leaning on the counter, eyes wide and breath ragged.</p><p>He’s still holding the bag of potatoes.</p><p>Dean glances up at him and grins, eyes shining.</p><p>“You want pie for lunch?”</p><p>
  <strong>7.</strong>
</p><p>Icy water cascades over Cas’ head and he flails up into gasping consciousness.</p><p>For a sickening moment he has no idea where he is. Senses sluggish, body aching, eyes glued shut. All he can feel is hard surface, wet, cold, <em>cold.</em> It’s the empty again, all darkness and void and pain.</p><p>Then hands land on his shoulders.</p><p>“Cas, Cas it’s okay!”</p><p>Cas knows that voice. Sick, blinded, injured, bleeding out on the floor, his <em>bones</em> would always know that voice.</p><p>
  <em>Dean.</em>
</p><p>The recognition wraps a frail tether around his wrist, grounds him enough to realise he’s not dead, he’s not in the empty.</p><p>His chest hurts like someone’s cracked his ribs open, throat burns all too much like the fire of Metatron draining his grace from his neck, but he’s alive.</p><p>He pries his eyes open. For a second the light spears into his head and he flinches, whines against the flare of pain across his forehead. Then it dims to a bearable throb and he blinks, the world wavering into focus.</p><p>He's in the tub in the bunker bathroom. Covered in freezing water that sinks pinpricks of needling cold into his skin where the floating ice shards brush against him.</p><p>A hand appears in his vision, takes him gently by the chin to pull his head around. Dean is leaning towards him over the side of the bath.</p><p>“Cas?” He asks, cautious and slow. “You really awake this time?”</p><p>Cas blinks under his touch, confused.</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>At the sound of his voice Dean slumps a bit, tension easing in his shoulders.</p><p>“Hey there sweetheart.” He runs his fingers through Cas’ sopping hair, combing it off his face. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>Cas’ gaze tracks slowly down to look at himself. He’s shivering now, fine tremors rippling over the water.</p><p>“I’m-“ he flounders to find a word, any word, in the soup of his memory. “In… bath?”</p><p>“I had to cool you down Cas, you were a furnace.” Dean rubs comforting circles on the inside of Cas’ wrist. “I know it’s uncomfortable, I’m sorry. I was starting to think the fever was going to give you brain damage.”</p><p>Cas shakes his head a little. It’s so hard to focus. Dean sounds unbalanced, fragile, but Cas’ sluggish brain can’t follow its own thoughts enough to work out why that matters. He drags his gaze back to Dean’s face.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” His throat is a raw thing, the words grating rough on the way out.</p><p>“You’ve got the flu Cas, you’ve had it for a while.” Dean’s voice is even rougher than usual, eyes sunken, skin waxy and pale. He says the words so wearily, so like a mantra, that Cas wonders how often he’s asked that before in the last few days. He has no concept of time to centre himself with. His last memories are fuzzy, hazy things, nothing more than vague impressions of malaise and a growing conviction that he was dying. Here in the windowless bunker bathroom he might as well be in the empty for all that he can tell what day it is.</p><p>“How long?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes flicker a little, but he does come back to meet Cas’ gaze.</p><p>“About a week,” he replies. “It really hit you on Wednesday though, that’s when you stopped talking to me. It’s Saturday night now.”</p><p>His voice cracks on the curves of the words. He smiles at Cas but it’s brittle, the edges splintering.</p><p>Cas summons some energy from god knows what reserve inside and drags up a shaking hand to Dean’s cheek.</p><p>“… you kay?”</p><p>Dean stares at him for a beat, mouth setting like he’s angry but eyes melting with warmth.</p><p>“Trust you to worry about me when you’ve been out of your head with fever for three days.” Dean leans forward to press a hard, furious kiss onto Cas’ forehead. His hand on Cas’ arm is shaking and water drops onto Cas’ cheek as Dean lingers against his brow. He’s pretty sure it’s not from the bath.</p><p>Dean’s eyes are red rimmed when he pulls back but doesn’t give Cas time to comment.</p><p>“How’re you feeling?” He asks, while pressing the back of his hand to Cas’ forehead. “You’re a lot more talky than you have been for a while.”</p><p>Cas considers. He screws his eyes up to think and that actually makes Dean smile, genuinely this time.</p><p>“Head hurts.” He whispers, letting it drop heavily to rest on the rim of the bath. “Chest’s… weird. Ache. A lot.”</p><p>Dean nods, eyes creasing thoughtfully. “Sounds about right for flu. You’re going to feel like crap for a while yet. Sorry, sweetheart.”</p><p>Cas groans a little, shudders against the porcelain, closes his eyes. Dean must decide that Cas has cooled down enough, because he sets about hauling him up out of the tub – an endeavour when Cas is as stable as cooked spaghetti – setting him down on a convenient chair that Cas is fairly sure was in the library last time he saw it, and towelling him down from head to toe. It mostly passes in a haze, Cas leaning his head on the tiled wall and trying feebly to lift limbs when Dean starts dressing him. Then Dean gets Cas’ arm around his shoulders and walks them down the corridor to their room.</p><p>Cas sags into Deans side as they stagger along. Trembling reverberates through his chest and for a long, groggy moment he thinks it’s him, until he blinks his eyes back open and sees the hand Dean has pressed into his ribs is shaking.</p><p>He raises his head wearily to look at Dean’s face. Watches the determined, exhausted set of Dean’s jaw, the throb of his pulse in his neck. Worry stirs in his stomach. Tired as he is, he pushes harder on his legs, forces himself to hold his own body up a little more, take some weight off Dean.</p><p>Dean gets them safely into their room and deposits Cas onto the bed. He moves quickly then, pulling ridiculous fluffy bedsocks on Cas’ feet and taking his temperature with a thermometer that must be as old as the bunker. He seems satisfied with the result since his eyes loosen at the corners, and he doesn’t touch Cas’ forehead with the worried pressure that he did in the bathroom.</p><p>He bundles Cas up in blankets, cajoles him into drinking some water and eating a few mouthfuls of soup. It tastes homemade, all mild chicken broth and vegetables that Cas likes. Cas squints at Dean over the rim of the bowl, wonders how Dean managed to cook soup when his hands are shaking too hard to hide and he keeps rubbing his hand over his face to keep himself awake.</p><p>Dean evades Cas’ questioning gaze by fetching some more meds and dosing him up. The drugs hit quickly and he’s sinking into sedated clouds before he can really process what’s going on. He drifts for a soft moment, carried on waves of relief as the headache recedes and his aching joints quiet. Then Dean gets up to move to the chair by the bed and Cas jolts back to a semblance of wakefulness.</p><p><em>No. </em>He can barely think any more, but that thought is clear. <em>No.</em></p><p>With a monumental effort he rolls over and latches his hand onto Dean’s elbow. He’s so exhausted Dean could break out of his grip with no effort, but he doesn’t. He sits down on the edge of the bed again and leans in instead. “What’s up Cas?”</p><p>“Need sleep,” Cas mumbles. His tired tongue trips on the words and it emerges half mush.</p><p>Dean laughs a little. “Yeah, I know. You gonna let go of my arm so you can?”</p><p>Cas growls, frustration warring with fatigue. “No, you.” He tugs weakly at Dean’s sleeve. “You sleep.”</p><p>Dean shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave you alone and if I sleep here I’ll disturb…”</p><p><em>“Dean.”</em> Cas puts all the warning he can into the syllable. Musters all the strength he can find and pushes it into one clear, dangerous sentence. “Get in here and sleep right now or I swear I will smite you.”</p><p>Dean’s resolve crumbles.</p><p>“Fine, Jesus, okay.” He toes his shoes off, shuffles out of his jeans and shirt, slides under the duvet in his t-shirt and boxers. As soon as his body touches the mattress, Cas literally feels him sag with relief at lying down, curling into the giving softness. Cas would grab his hand and hug him in close if he had the energy, but Dean reads his mind without him having to move. He snuggles up to Cas’ back and tucks an arm around him, nose pressing into the back of his neck.</p><p>Content at last, Cas gives in to sleep’s siren song and lets his eyes finally, finally close. He’s just slipping under when Dean huffs a breath against his shoulder.</p><p>“You can’t even smite me any more anyway.”</p><p>
  <strong>8.</strong>
</p><p>The waiter plants the plates on the table and stamps away before Dean can open his mouth. Dean frowns down at his food. There’s lettuce on his burger.</p><p>Lettuce.</p><p>Who is he, Sam?</p><p>He inhales through his teeth.</p><p>A hand appears, snags the lettuce and whips it away. Leaves Dean’s burger unsullied, as it should be. A second later the hand is back sliding a rejected pickle onto the edge of the plate.</p><p>Dean looks up.</p><p>Cas isn’t even looking at him, he’s reading the back of the ketchup bottle, focused like it could hold the keys to the universe.</p><p>Dean watches him for a minute and feels the irritation drain out through the soles of his feet.</p><p>“Hey Cas.”</p><p>Cas flicks his eyes over, tilts his head.</p><p>“Pass the salt will you?”</p><p>Cas smiles, does.</p><p>
  <strong>9.</strong>
</p><p>It’s fucking freezing in Kansas this January. Dean has the bunker’s heating turned up to something obnoxious and he’s still shuffling around in sweats and his robe and a blanket thrown around him. It bites into his joints, sets his hands aching and his fingers fumbling no matter how high he turns the radiators or how many layers he piles on.</p><p>Some days he wishes the bunker were in Florida where he’d never have to worry about how the cold sets off his old war wounds and reminds him sharply and precisely of exactly how old he’s got, but then Cas reads him another headline about <em>Florida man pleads guilty to killing sawfish by removing extended nose with power saw,</em> and he’s suddenly grateful for Kansas, fucking freezing mornings and all.</p><p>Some mornings aren’t so bad.</p><p>This morning he’d woken to find a new thermal blanket thrown over the bed. It was patterned with constellations and the warmest thing he’d ever felt. He barely had time to poke it and frown in confusion at its sudden, inexplicable presence, before Cas had appeared through the doorway, coffee in hand, and pushed all thoughts of mystery blankets from Dean’s head.</p><p>Cas had handed him the coffee and snuggled into Dean’s side while he drank. The caffeine had just about woken him up enough to wonder why Cas was out of bed before Dean, because getting Cas out of bed early usually required a crowbar, when Cas had taken the coffee mug, planted it on the bedside table, slung his leg over Dean’s waist, shoved his hands down Deans sweats, and kissed him until the only thought in Dean’s head was <em>want want want now</em>.</p><p>When they’d finally stumbled into the kitchen a couple of hours later, Dean’s pupils still a little blown and Cas still mostly holding onto to Dean to stay upright, Sam had just rolled his eyes and passed Dean a plate of apple pie without making any kind of crass comment.</p><p>Sam giving him pie for breakfast. He should really have caught on.</p><p>They spend most of the day puttering about the bunker. They don’t really get anything done, but Dean’s happy to do the little domestic things that get neglected when they’re sunk into a hunt, polish up baby, spend a few hours sprawled out on the sofa with a record playing. Cas follows him like his own shadow all day, helping him tidy the kitchen, passing Dean polish and cloths while he works on the car, flopping down on Dean’s stomach and dozing while the record plays out.</p><p>Sam mostly leaves them to it, but he smiles at Dean when they pass in the corridor, pulls grilled cheese for all of them out of nowhere around lunchtime, brings Dean a beer in the late afternoon, near the end of the second Led Zeppelin record Dean’s put on.</p><p>Eileen finally gets back from her hunt about three. She breezes into the bunker, greets Sam somewhere Dean can’t see – thank <em>god, Jack, whatever -</em> leans over the sofa arm to hug Cas, who doesn’t even bother to sit up from his boneless sprawl over most of Dean’s body to respond, comes around the sofa to hug Dean from behind. Dean signs a clumsy “hi, welcome home” as she leaves the room, and she grins at him like he lit the sun.</p><p>It’s only when Dean casually glances at his watch about six in the evening, debating whether it’s time to make a start on dinner, that he finally clocks the date.</p><p>January 24<sup>th</sup>.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Those sneaky fucking bastards.</p><p>Dean keeps his mouth shut. He wants to see if they’ve got anything else planned. Calculate exactly how he’s supposed to react.</p><p>Nothing really happens though. He makes dinner – pizza – smacks Sam’s knuckles with his spatula when Sam tries to steal bits of pepperoni, almost lets the food burn when Cas shoves him into the counter and kisses him breathless.</p><p>Cas chooses a film for them, but he picks <em>A Fistful of Dollars, </em>which Dean <em>knows </em>he’s not really interested in, other than for the fact Dean likes it. Sam doesn’t so much as huff in discontent, just tops up the beers and takes the less comfortable seat with Eileen so Cas and Dean can hog the entire comfortable sofa.</p><p>Cas presses all of himself up against Dean’s side during the film. He turns into Dean’s side, tucks his leg in between Dean’s and slips his hand up Dean’s shirt to rest on his stomach. Dean knows Sam’s noticed from the tiny eyeroll he catches out of the corner of his eye, but Sam doesn’t even wrinkle his nose at them. He just rests his head on Eileen’s shoulder and smiles, warm and content.</p><p>Dean lets himself relax. Bask in that contentment of his family being all together, intact and close in the quiet of the bunker’s warmth.</p><p>It’s only when Cas goes to curl around him in bed that night that Dean grabs his wrists, pushes him back and pins him down on the mattress. He props himself over Cas, folds his arms on Cas’ chest and frowns down at him. Cas blinks back up, blue eyes wide and innocent.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have time for pretending.</p><p>“You’ve been doing stuff.” He says flatly. “Because it’s my birthday.”</p><p>Cas swallows. Nods once. Dean groans, rolls his eyes.</p><p>“I fuckin’ hate my birthday Cas, you and Sam should know-“</p><p>Cas interrupts with a press of his hand over Dean’s mouth.</p><p>“I know, Dean. Sam I both know. But.” Cas shifts a little, eyes flicking down and to the side. “We weren’t going to celebrate, we know you don’t want that. But we just… wanted you to know. That we remembered. And we care.” He stops, flicks his eyes back up to Dean’s. His hands slide up Dean’s ribs to press gently into the back of his shoulders. “We just wanted you to have a good day.”</p><p>Cas tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair, drags him down to kiss him slow and soft and gentle. When they part he cards his fingers through the hair behind Dean’s ear, scrabbles down by his knee to pull the starry blanket up over Dean’s shoulders.</p><p>“Did you have a good day Dean?”</p><p>Dean blinks down at him. His heart suddenly feels four times too big for his ribs. Cas just smiles up at him, so wide and happy and warm, looking like everything Dean’s ever wanted and never known how to ask for. Dean smiles back, helpless not to.</p><p>“Yeah, Cas.” He drops his head onto Cas’ chest. “The best.”</p><p>
  <strong>10.</strong>
</p><p>“Wanna tell me why you were flirting with that waiter?” Dean’s voice is admonishing, but the crinkle around his eyes and the bright tap of his fingers on the steering wheel bely his faked irritation.</p><p>Cas still frowns out the car window, needled.</p><p>“I was not <em>flirting.”</em></p><p>“What do you call what you were doing then?” Dean pokes at him without taking his eyes off the road. “Suggestive ordering?”</p><p>Cas rolls his eyes, leans to wind the window down so the fresh air buffets his face, drowns out Dean’s stupid voice.</p><p>“I don’t flirt with anyone but you.” He mutters, rebellious. “Fuck if I know why though, when you’re this irritating.” And next to him Dean’s laugh peals out like a bell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Writing this while listening to Carly Rae Jepsen's Cut to the Feeling is my way of denying the finale exists.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 11-20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW for homophobic language in number 17.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>11.</strong>
</p><p>Sam is watching him with a look on his face Cas has never seen before. He ignores him, beelines for the coffee on the counter.</p><p>The first sip delivers enough blessed caffeine for him to open his eyes properly. He catches sight of his reflection in a corner of chrome and scowls at the state of his hair. Damn Dean and his grabby hands.</p><p>Sam is still staring at him.</p><p>Dean trails in, feet dragging and heavy-lidded eyes fixed on the coffee in an exact replica of Cas’ own entrance. Cas grabs a mug, has coffee poured and held out just in time for Dean to snatch it as he collapses to lean on Cas’ back.</p><p>Sam is still staring. It’s making the back of Cas’ neck itch.</p><p>“What, Sam?” He finally growls. “Has Dean bitten me somewhere visible again?”</p><p>Sam flinches, nose wrinkling, but what he says is “you’re wearing Dean’s shirt.”</p><p>Cas’ brow creases in confusion. He looks down at his t-shirt. It is, indeed, Dean’s. Against his back, Dean gulps down his first mouthful of coffee and sighs happily.</p><p>“Yes?” He hazards.</p><p>Sam huffs. “You’re wearing Dean’s Led Zeppelin t-shirt. It’s vintage.”</p><p>Cas is still not enlightened as to why this warrants extended staring. “Okay?” He agrees, perplexed.</p><p>“He’s been warning me not to wear that t-shirt for fifteen years,” Sam sulks, petulant.</p><p>Dean barely glances up from half inhaling his coffee. “You’d stretch it.” He says.</p><p>Sam’s face twists in a particularly sour bitchface and Cas hides his grin in his coffee.</p><p>
  <strong>12.</strong>
</p><p>Cas shoves his feet under Dean’s thigh. Dean feels his toes curl into the cushions under him.</p><p>“Cold?” He asks without lifting his head from where it’s leant onto the sofa back.</p><p>“No.” Cas wriggles his feet in further. Dean slides his hand up Cas’ jeans, wraps his fingers around his ankle.</p><p>Cas hums softly, goes back to his book.</p><p>***</p><p>The suspect invites them in, asks them to sit down at the dining table while he fetches coffee. They settle themselves in, deliberately clustering themselves at one of the table so the suspect will have to face the united front of the three of them at once.</p><p>Dean pulls his phone out and pulls up the case notes again, just to keep his memory sharp.</p><p>Sam clears his throat, kicks Dean in the shin. Dean looks up, frowning, to Sam staring pointedly at the gap between Dean and Cas.</p><p>Dean turns his head. Notes that Cas’ arm is close enough to brush his own. Carefully shifts his chair away to a professional distance.</p><p>Cas glances over at him, something bereft surfacing in his eyes, and Dean slides his left foot over to press against Cas’ right.</p><p>The suspect will never see.</p><p>***</p><p>Cas is fidgeting in the passenger seat. His fingers tap against his knee, eyes flicker from the road ahead, to his fingers, to the radio blasting Metallica, to Dean, to the side window, to the road again.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake Cas, just come here.” Dean opens his right arm out without taking his eyes off the road. Cas immediately shoves across the seat, presses into Dean’s side. His hands finally still, one calm in his lap and one resting on Dean’s thigh.</p><p>Dean curves his arm over Cas’ shoulders and lets the road take them.</p><p>***</p><p>Dean shuffles up behind Cas as he’s washing his face at the sink. He wraps his arms around him and leans so heavily that Cas staggers and braces himself on the counter. He looks up, sees the two of them reflected in the mirror.</p><p>A memory surfaces of a motel and another mirror, many years in the past. Cas pokes Dean in the side.</p><p>“Dean,” he says, deadpan. “Personal space? We’ve talked about this.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t answer, but Cas feels his silent laugh reverberate through him.</p><p>
  <strong>13.</strong>
</p><p>The wendigo catches Cas right in the centre of his chest.</p><p>He goes down hard, back first onto solid concrete. His breath punches out of him like he’s taken a shotgun to the heart.</p><p>He goes to push up, spring to his feet, dive back into the fight, but-</p><p>His chest constricts. His breath catches hard in his throat.</p><p>He can’t breathe. <em>He can’t breathe.</em></p><p>“Cas, Cas, it’s okay, you’re just winded, Cas c’mon listen to me-“</p><p>Dean’s voice sounds somewhere in the distance. Cas gasps helplessly, sucking at air that won’t reach his lungs. Somewhere outside his body someone grabs him, pulls him upright, bends him forward so his arms hang between his knees, his head rests on something soft and yielding that feels like-</p><p>“Okay, okay, breathe in through your nose- Cas, Cas, come on go with me, Cas, it’ll help-“</p><p>Cas is dying. He has to be dying. He can’t <em>breathe.</em> He scrabbles at Dean’s arms, clutches uselessly at Dean’s shirt, his jacket, Dean’s hands as he holds him up, cradles his head. Darkness eats at the edges of his vision.</p><p>“Come on Cas, breathe with me okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. C’mon sweetheart, focus on me now.”</p><p>Cas tries. He <em>tries.</em></p><p>But how is he meant to breathe in and out when there’s no air <em>to </em>breathe?</p><p>Dean pulls him in, presses him against his chest.</p><p>“Breathe with me Cas, okay? You can feel me breathing? Breathe with me.”</p><p>Cas can feel it. Dean’s chest rising and falling. The beat of his heart, fast and frightened against Cas’ ear.</p><p>It’s that fear more than anything that makes Cas focus, makes him try.</p><p>Breathe in. Breathe out.</p><p>Dean’s chest rises and falls against his face.</p><p>Breathe in. Breathe out.</p><p>Cas mouths at the air, grabs at it. It slips away.</p><p>Breathe in. Breathe out.</p><p>Dean’s hands clutch his head, his back.</p><p>And then something loosens. Snaps in his chest and the air rushes in. Cas gasps like a drowned man. The darkness around his eyes recedes a little.</p><p>“Okay? Cas? Okay?”</p><p>Cas breathes in shakily. It still hurts, but he can breathe. He <em>can</em> breathe.</p><p>He nods once.</p><p>Dean sags against him.</p><p>“Fucking Christ Cas, don’t scare me like that ever again.”</p><p>Dean’s voice cracks. His head drops down to rest on Cas’ hair. Cas feels Dean’s whole body shudder against him.</p><p>He wants to apologise, to tell Dean he didn’t mean to. But his lungs ache, and his hands are shaking and every breath feels like it’s scraping the inside of his chest raw.</p><p>So Cas just rests his head against Dean’s chest. Breathes.</p><p>
  <strong>14.</strong>
</p><p>It’s unseasonably hot for Kansas in September. Cas has ended up tending his little garden shirtless a few times, hating the cling of sweaty fabric to his skin as he works. Dean has been religious about making Cas put on sunscreen, about coming up to the roof after a few hours and making him re-apply it. Most times he’ll help Cas with the bits of his back he can’t reach, and – Cas hasn’t been getting a whole lot of gardening done lately. For some reason.</p><p>Today the sky’s endlessly blue again, the sun high and the air so warm and still it feels thick, the light hanging in it like honey.</p><p>Dean wakes Cas up with breakfast in bed, later than he normally lets Cas sleep. Coffee, homemade waffles with maple syrup. Dean puts a record on, lies on the bed with his head on Cas’ thighs and talks about nothing while Cas eats. He’s not wearing a shirt, and the rise of his breath in his ribs catches Cas’ gaze and won’t let him look away. Cas only makes it through half his food before he has to put it aside, grab hold of Dean and yank him up to kiss his stupid, beautiful, distracting face.</p><p>Dean’s hands taste like sugar and syrup. The waffles can’t compare.</p><p>***</p><p>When they finally do get up, shower, and dress, Dean suggests they take a road trip to Hastings.</p><p>“Bigger town, y’know.” He shoots Cas a grin as he pulls his shirt on. “Could pick up some nicer beers, scout out the bookstores. Find a fancy gardening place to get those seeds and things you want.”</p><p>Cas hesitates doing up his buttons, watches Dean bend down to tie his boots. Dean hates shopping for gardening things. Usually it takes Cas at least a week of pestering until he’ll grudgingly drive him somewhere for seeds and topsoil.</p><p>So this is strange.</p><p>“That sounds nice,” he says cautiously, and Dean smiles again, bright eyed and happy.</p><p>On the road, Dean puts Cas’ mixtape on, rolls the windows down so the warm wind buffets their hair. He holds Cas’ hand on the seat and looks over at him every few minutes, corner of his mouth pulling up in a smile. The sunlight glows around him, highlighting his freckles and scattering motes of gold in his green eyes. Cas could look at him forever.</p><p>They park up in central Hastings around lunchtime. Dean immediately insists they get coffee and sandwiches, so they head for a promising-looking café. Dean takes Cas’ hand without seeming to think about it, laces their fingers together while they’re walking. He puts his arm casually around Cas’ shoulders in the coffee shop queue. Cas leans into him and he smiles and tidies an errant bit of Cas’ hair.</p><p>Cas isn’t used to Dean being so openly physically affectionate in public. He’s never distant, but he’s never been hugely comfortable with putting them on display either. Generally Cas doesn’t mind, but he would like to be able to hold Dean’s hand whenever he wants without considering who might be looking, so this makes his heart beat hard and happy in his chest. He’s particularly pleased when the barista calls them cute together and Dean blushes a bit, grinning down at his feet.</p><p>But it <em>is</em> another strange thing.</p><p>They eat at one of the tables outside. Dean takes his outer shirt off, grumbling about the heat, and Cas watches the muscles in Dean’s arms move as he eats, shades his eyes from the sun, swirls his coffee.</p><p>Cas wonders briefly if he’s reached the peak of possible happiness, if this is the best he’ll ever feel. Then Dean kisses a stray bit of latte foam off the corner of his mouth and no, he still somehow has room to be happier.</p><p>When they’re finished they head up the street, looking in shop windows, talking about nothing in particular. At the bookstore, Dean picks up a new book on American myths that Sam’s been talking about buying while Cas browses around aimlessly. He ends up with five new books, and to his surprise, Dean doesn’t object despite Cas already having <em>more books than any human in history, when are you ever gonna find time to read this stuff?</em> Dean even takes the bag and carries it for him, slung over his shoulder.</p><p>After they’re done puttering about town, they head out to a garden centre near the highway. Dean lets Cas drag him around the whole place exclaiming over plants and telling him about the history of food cultivation on earth from a first-hand perspective, and the importance of bees in pollination, and doesn’t complain once.</p><p>After loading the heavy bags into the car, Dean stretches his back out with his eyes closed and his arms above his head. Cas catches himself staring at the flash of stomach where Dean’s shirt pulls up, and is about to look away when Dean catches his eye, gives him a suggestive wink and deliberately stretches a bit further.</p><p>Cas is absolutely baffled by Dean today.</p><p>It’s not that he hasn’t been enjoying it, but… it’s as if Dean is setting out to make Cas happy in every way he can think of, no matter how minuscule, and Cas has no clue why this day in particular has brought this on.</p><p>“Dinner?” Dean interrupts his train of thought. “We should get something nicer than fast food for a change, go to a proper restaurant.”</p><p>“Isn’t that going to be expensive?” Cas asks.</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not suggesting any Michelin star bullshit, they wouldn’t let us in dressed like this anyway. Just something with table service where the floors aren’t greasy.”</p><p>“Okay.” Cas agrees readily. That does sound appealing.</p><p>“Sweet, what do you fancy? I’m down for whatever you are.” Dean smiles and Cas feels unbalanced all over again, because there Dean goes being nice at every last opportunity, and it’s lovely but he doesn’t understand.</p><p>They get Italian in the end. Cas has decided he really likes pesto.</p><p>***</p><p>They’re sat on baby’s bonnet, parked in the middle of nowhere late at night, halfway back to the bunker. Dean pulls some beers out of the cooler, leans against Cas’ side and asks him to tell him about the stars.</p><p>Cas talks, pointing out the ones he’s visited, his favourite constellations, watches Dean out of the side of his eye. Dean isn’t really looking where he’s pointing. He looks up when Cas talks about something specific, but mostly he’s just watching Cas with this soft expression, like he couldn’t imagine looking at anything more beautiful.</p><p>Cas finally can’t take it any more.</p><p>“Why are you being so nice to me today, Dean?”</p><p>Dean chokes a little on his beer, swipes his hand over his mouth.</p><p>“Are you saying I’m not always nice to you?”</p><p>Cas can see Dean smiling from the corner of his eye, so he doesn’t rise to the barb.</p><p>“You’re being particularly nice today.”</p><p>Dean sighs a little. Rubs the back of his neck.</p><p>“I just.” He stops, glances as Cas sideways. “You don’t have a birthday.”</p><p>Cas blinks, startled. Of all the things he’d wondered, he hadn’t expected that.</p><p>“You and Sam made my birthday actually not suck for once this year, and I just… wanted you to have a day. Like that.” Dean ducks his head. “Don’t laugh.”</p><p>The smile breaks irresistibly over Cas’ face.</p><p>“I’m not laughing.” He leans over and wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “Thank you, it was… a wonderful day. Perfect.”</p><p>Dean loosens under his hold, turns his head to kiss Cas’ hair.</p><p>“Good,” he mumbles.</p><p>Cas leans on him for a while, feeling the rhythm of Dean’s breath, the warmth of him through their clothes. Dean watches the sky, hums a little under his breath.</p><p>“Why today though?” Cas asks suddenly. “What made you pick today?”</p><p>Dean leans forward and puts his beer down by baby’s wheel. Then he straightens, twists around to grab Cas by the shoulders and push him flat on the bonnet. He cradles the back of Cas’ head in one hand, leans over him.</p><p>“It’s September eighteenth.”</p><p>Cas’ hand has caught itself on Dean’s hip. He’s not sure how it got there.</p><p>“Yes, it is.”</p><p>Dean grins at him, shifts so one of his legs is between Cas’ knees.</p><p>“It was September eighteenth twelve years ago. In that barn in Illinois.”</p><p>Cas’ eyes widen. “Oh.”</p><p>“I know you were on earth before that but… I dunno, man. It just felt important and-“</p><p>Cas grabs Dean’s head, fists his fingers in his hair, yanks him roughly down to kiss him. When he lets go Dean is panting, dishevelled, flushed.</p><p>“It’s <em>perfect </em>Dean<em>.</em>” Cas smiles so wide it hurts. “Your birthday is supposed to be one of the most important days of your life. I think this fits.”</p><p>Dean blushes furiously and Cas is helpless not to kiss him again.</p><p>
  <strong>15.</strong>
</p><p>Cas leans Dean against the doorframe while he turns on the bathroom light. Even in those two short seconds Dean sways, face turning grey and queasy.</p><p>“Cas,” he mumbles, hands fumbling at Cas’ shoulder, “sick.”</p><p>Cas grabs onto him again, steadies Dean’s sagging frame against his own. He gets him down on the floor, back against the tiles and legs splayed out over the linoleum without incident, but as soon as he pulls at Dean’s jacket, twitching it away from his bloodied side, Dean flails and collapses sideways.</p><p>“Cas, I-“ he groans into the floor, “I- puke. Gonna-“</p><p>“It’ll be the blood loss making you light-headed.” Cas hauls Dean back upright, presses a damp cloth against his forehead. “You don’t want to throw up with a knife wound in your side Dean, that will hurt.”</p><p>Dean swallows convulsively. Nods. “Kay. Try not.”</p><p>Cas finally manages to get Dean wriggled out of his jacket and flannel, then sets about peeling the blood-soaked t-shirt away from his skin. The wound underneath is just under his ribs, long but clean and not too deep, and Cas offers up an internal thanks for small mercies.</p><p>He presses a clean towel to the sluggishly leaking blood.</p><p>“I have to get the first aid kit from your bag.” Cas takes Dean’s hand, pushes it down on the towel. “Hold this tight, don’t fall over again.”</p><p>Dean blinks owlishly at him. Cas can feel his eyes following him as he hurries across the motel room to Dean’s bag, dumped at the end of the bed. He pulls out the first aid kit – a large one, definitely not straight from the pharmacy shelf – hesitates, snags the whiskey from the table by the window as he heads back to the bathroom.</p><p>Dean’s hand is still obediently holding the towel to his side, but his head is canted sideways and his eyes are closed.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas puts his hand to Dean’s cheek, pulls his head upright.</p><p>Dean’s eyes open slowly and he winces, mouth pulling tight at the corners. “Didn’t fall over.”</p><p>Cas takes the towel, checks on the bleeding. “I know, but you do need to stay awake too.”</p><p>Cas pulls out a sterile wipe and starts cleaning the blood from around the cut. Dean hisses in a breath, fingers catching on Cas’ knee.</p><p>“Why do you always have to throw yourself in front of knives, Dean?” Cas douses the wound with disinfectant. Dean jerks, eyes rolling up a little. As Cas dabs the wound dry with cotton wool, Dean glances down at it.</p><p>“Lngkh.” He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, tips his head back to rest on the tiles and stares up at the ceiling.</p><p>Cas sighs, considers.</p><p>“I’m going to have to stitch this.”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“Five stitches probably. You want the whiskey?”</p><p>“Nn.”</p><p>“All right. Keep still.”</p><p>Cas finishes threading the needle, douses it one last time in disinfectant. He puts Dean’s arm over his back to keep it out of the way and sets to work on the first stitch.</p><p>“My fault.” Dean breathes between his teeth as the thread pulls through his skin, sweat beading his brow. “Wasn’t lookin’.”</p><p>“You <em>were </em>looking Dean.” Cas doesn’t look up from his focused stitching. Dean twitches under him, hand closing over thin air like he’s grasping for a weapon. “You saw him coming with the knife and you got in the way on purpose. So he wouldn’t get me.”</p><p>There’s a pause. Cas pushes another stitch through. Dean’s body stays perfectly still, letting the stitch glide into place just as Cas wants, but his leg jerks, heel knocking off the floor.</p><p>“Last one.”</p><p>Cas pulls the thread tight, ties it off neatly. Dean’s hand clenches on Cas’ shirt, then Cas is snipping the thread and sitting up. Dean relaxes marginally. He looks down at his side.</p><p>“Did good,” he mumbles.</p><p>Cas opens the tube of antiseptic, squeezes some out and daubs it over the stitches.</p><p>“Yes. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice. Because you keep throwing yourself in front of knives.”</p><p>Dean rolls his head to look up at Cas, blinks at him a little blearily.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“No you’re not.” Cas rips open a bandage, smooths it down over Dean’s ribs.</p><p>Dean’s hand fumbles at Cas’ collar, clings on with weak fingers. “Don’t want you getting’ hurt.”</p><p>Cas sighs. “I don’t want you getting hurt either.” He leans forward and rests his forehead on Dean’s. “I don’t particularly enjoy stitching you back together.”</p><p>“Really am sorry.” Dean’s fingers slide clumsily up to brush Cas’ cheek. Cas closes his eyes for a second, presses his hand onto Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Not gonna promise I’ll stop.”</p><p>Cas sighs again, leans back. Dean’s hand slips from his face, but Cas catches it and holds it in his lap while he shoves the first aid supplies back in the bag one-handed.</p><p>“I know you won’t.”</p><p>Dean’s fingers squeeze his and Dean smiles a tiny bit.</p><p>“Come on.” Cas shoves the first aid kit to the side and clambers to his feet. He hauls Dean up with him, lifting him carefully by the elbows, but Dean still hisses and closes his eyes as the movement stretches the stitches.</p><p>“Let’s get those bloody clothes off, and then you’re going to bed, Dean. No arguments.”</p><p>Cas slings Dean’s arm on his good side around his own shoulders and walks him out of the bathroom. Dean leans into him heavily, head resting against Cas’ and eyes closing before they even make it to sitting on the bed. Dean toes his own boots and socks off while Cas slowly manoeuvres him out of his ruined t-shirt. Shuffling him out of his jeans and into some clean sweats takes a few minutes more, and by the time Cas is helping him lie down Dean is mostly asleep, all clingy arms and half-closed, unfocused eyes.</p><p>“I’m going to run to the vending machine in the hall, get some water and any food that’s worth eating.” Cas detaches Dean’s grabby hands from his clothes, presses his hand to Dean’s cheek, bends down to kiss his temple. “Don’t throw yourself in front of any knives while I’m gone.”</p><p>Dean laughs softly into the pillow, then he’s asleep.</p><p>
  <strong>16.</strong>
</p><p>“I’m gonna drive past the graveyard one last time.” Dean hauls himself up from the bed and snags baby’s keys. “Make sure it’s all quiet.”</p><p>Cas looks up from his pile of research, back down at where his bandaged knee is propped on a pillow surrounded by ice packs.</p><p>“You said I’m not allowed to stand up till tomorrow.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know.” Dean leans down to kiss the top of Cas’ head. “You stay here. I’ll just drive by, make sure we got all the ghosts and come straight back. No solo hunting, scout’s honour.”</p><p>Cas squints at him, a little confused and uncertain.</p><p>“What if it’s <em>not</em> quiet?”</p><p>“Sam and Eileen are ten miles down the road, I’d call them.” Dean drops to crouch by the bed. “Do you not want me to?”</p><p>Cas bites his lip, taps his fingertips off the book page.</p><p>“Just be careful,” he says eventually. “I don’t like it when I can’t watch your back.”</p><p>Dean’s heart softens and he has to plant another kiss on Cas’ cheek. “I will, I promise.”</p><p>He goes to stand up, but Cas grabs his cuff and holds him still.</p><p>“Here,” Cas says, grabbing his angel blade off the bed beside him and proffering it. “Take this with you.”</p><p>Confused, Dean puts his hand on the hilt but doesn’t take it. “I do have a knife, Cas.”</p><p>“I know.” Cas closes his hand over Dean’s on the hilt. “But that’s not <em>mine.” </em>And he fixes Dean with the look that will make Dean do literally anything he asks. So Dean takes it.</p><p>It’s only later, when Dean’s in the car, that he really looks at the blade. Dean’s wielded a lot of angel blades in the past, but this one belongs to Cas. It’s the one he carried into hell to save him. It’s the one he’s been defending Dean with for over a decade. It doesn’t look much different to the other blades at first glance, but when Dean looks closer there’s something about the way the car lights on the metal play bluer than they should that makes Dean think of Cas’ grace. When he holds the hilt it’s already warm against his palm, and it feels familiar, as if he’s holding Cas’ hand. He tries a few moves and the blade flows with him easily, like it’s a part of his body.</p><p><em>Watching my back</em>, Dean thinks, and smiles.</p><p>
  <strong>17.</strong>
</p><p>Dean sees the fight as soon as he rounds the corner. There’s a big man in scruffy jeans and a flannel yelling at two boys who are holding hands. Dean’s not close enough to hear everything the guy’s saying, but he does catch the word <em>faggot</em> and he freezes mid-step.</p><p>Cas is between the man and the boys. He’s holding his hands out, saying something, trying to placate the attacker’s anger. The guy keeps going to sidestep him, but Cas moves with him, keeping himself in front of the boys protectively.</p><p>And Cas looks so fucking <em>sad.</em> Dean knows he still forgets sometimes that humans can be so awful, so spiteful, so unforgiving. He goes around happily expecting people to be accepting and kind and giving all the time, because he is himself and for some reason he’s convinced Dean is too, so Dean tries desperately hard not to let him down. Then Cas will run open heart first into some asshole like <em>this</em> guy, and it’ll knock the shine right out of him for days.</p><p>Dean can’t stand it.</p><p>The two kids are huddled together against the wall now, hands clutched between them. They can’t be more than seventeen. One of them has a bi flag pin on his lapel and something in Dean’s heart twists.</p><p>Then the guy shoves Cas so hard Cas stumbles and Dean snaps into motion.</p><p>The boys look up as he approaches almost at a run and one of them’s face falls a tiny bit more at the sight of him. Dean’s feels that shift of expression hit him hard in the middle of his chest, because he <em>knows</em> what he must look like to that poor kid. Big guy, old boots, army jacket, two days’ stubble. He’s still got a scrape on his cheekbone and fading bruises on his knuckles from their last hunt. He doesn’t look all that different from the guy hounding them.</p><p>The guy pushes Cas again and Cas falls properly this time, landing with a surprised <em>oh</em>.</p><p>“Hey!” Dean yells.</p><p>The guy looks round. “The fuck you want?” He growls.</p><p>Dean shoves past him, grabs Cas’ hand and pulls him up. He turns to the man without letting go, holding Cas behind him.</p><p>“You need to stop this and leave.” He tries to sound calm, but it’s almost impossible when he can hear the boys’ breathing turning ragged with fear, feel how tightly Cas is holding his hand.</p><p>“What do <em>you</em> care?” The man spits at him. “You a fuckin’ fag too?”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter what I am, I don’t let people terrorise kids.” Dean releases Cas’ hand, settles his weight. He can’t see this guy backing down without a fight. “They’re not doing anything wrong, they’re just doing what teens in love do.  You should be on your way.”</p><p>“I’m not gonna let ‘em walk around like that, stickin’ how sick they are in other people’s faces, disgusting fucks-“</p><p>“Shut up.” Dean warns. “Shut up and leave, now, before you say anything else you’ll regret.”</p><p>Dean can see the guy’s thought processes in his face, so it’s no surprise when he suddenly throws a punch at Dean’s head. Dean ducks the fist, catches him by his swinging arm, uses the man’s own momentum to flip him onto his back.</p><p><em>“Jesus.”</em> One of the kids mutters. Dean hears Cas say something in response, but the guy’s already scrambling to his feet and Dean doesn’t catch it.</p><p>He shoves himself up in Dean’s face, red with fury.</p><p>“You fuckin’ fag bastard, I’m gonna-“</p><p>Dean looks him straight in the eye. He thinks of the things he’s fought, of Metatron and Alistair and Lucifer and the Empty. How in this moment, with Cas looking so furious and wounded, with those two kids huddling together behind him, he might hate this one guy just as much as he did any of them.</p><p>It must show in his face because the guy cuts off mid-rant, blanches, steps back.</p><p>“I’ll- I’ll call the fuckin’ police, you attacked-“</p><p>“No you won’t.” Dean says levelly. “You’ll fuck off back to the hole you crawled out of and rethink your life. Right. Now.”</p><p>The guy gapes at him for moment, rebellion warring with fear in his eyes. Dean just watches him. Finally something snaps and the guy turns and runs. Dean watches him till he rounds a distant corner and is properly gone. He doesn’t <em>think</em> the man’s enough of an idiot to come back, but he’s met some really stupid people in his life. He’s learnt to be careful.</p><p>Then Cas’ hands grab onto his jacket, pull Dean’s face around and Cas is kissing him.</p><p>Dean responds without thinking, sliding one arm around Cas’ shoulders and his other hand up to hold Cas’ cheek.</p><p>Cas is shaking in his arms. It’s not fear, Dean knows that. Cas stared down a charging werewolf three days ago, waited for it to get close enough to shoot without flinching. Cas doesn’t <em>do </em>scared anywhere visible - not against monsters, not against <em>God</em>, he’s not afraid of some irate bigot spewing vitriol. It’s misery, and disappointment, and a whole lot of anger. Dean can taste the fury on his lips as Cas’ mouth opens to his.</p><p>It’s brief, and when Cas pulls away he doesn’t say anything. He just fixes Dean with a devastating stare that carries a thousand jumbled words and emotions at once.</p><p>“You kids all right?” Dean makes himself tear his eyes away from Cas to look at the two boys. Check on them. They’re still leaning on the wall, but they’re not clinging so hard to each other and they’re staring up at him and Cas with a kind of astonished wonder.</p><p>Cas lets go of Dean’s jacket and he takes Dean’s hand instead. Both the boys look down at the movement in unison.</p><p>“Yeah.” One of them says weakly. “Thank you – both of you.”</p><p>The other one, the one with the flag pin, looks back up at Dean. “Yeah.” He agrees. “Thanks. That was so badass, man.”</p><p>“You take care of yourselves, okay?” Cas tells them. His voice sounds rough and Dean can’t help glancing at him in concern. The quieter boy smiles at him as he looks back around and Dean has to smile too.</p><p>The quiet one just nods at Cas without answering and goes to walk away, but flag pin hangs back, pulling on his boyfriend’s hand.</p><p>“Where did you learn to fight like that?” He asks, bright eyed and eager.</p><p>Dean shakes his head a little, smile widening. “Dangerous job.”</p><p>The kid’s eyes go round and amazed. His boyfriend finally manages to drag him off after him, but he looks back over his shoulder several times before he properly turns away.</p><p>Dean watches the boys’ retreating backs for a long time, until he’s pulled back to himself by Cas hugging him again fiercely.</p><p>“You didn’t have to do that, Dean.” Cas pulls back a bit to look Dean in the eye. “I could have dealt with it.”</p><p>Cas is still shaking a little, so subtle Dean only knows it’s happening from the tiny reverberation against his own chest.</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Dean buries his face in Cas’ hair and breathes in the scent of shampoo, coffee, <em>Cas.</em> He pictures those kids as they walked away, still holding hands and bumping their arms together, smiling now. Pictures himself at their age, the growing realisation of who he is, yearning for a boy in his Lit class with dark skin, a quick temper, outspoken opinions, and smiling brown eyes. His father’s passing derogatory comments about two women holding hands on the street as they drove by one night. The way his insides had felt afterwards. It’s been twenty-five years; he has no idea what town they were in any more, or why. He still remembers the exact words and the way his stomach had twisted inside out in response with razor sharp clarity.</p><p>He thinks of the lifetime of pushing it aside, pretending, living up to an ideal that isn’t his. Of what he did to get money to take care of Sam, the creeping shame that followed him like a shadow.</p><p>Thinks of Cas spending eleven years believing Dean wouldn’t – couldn’t - want him.</p><p>“I did have to,” he says into Cas’ hair. His voice is hoarse. “Not just for them. For – for-“</p><p>He stops, swallows hard.</p><p>Cas has been inside Dean’s head. He’s seen every corner of Dean’s soul. He doesn’t need Dean to talk to know what he means. He hugs Dean closer, cradles the back of his head with a gentle hand.</p><p>“Let’s go home, Dean.”</p><p>
  <strong>18.</strong>
</p><p>It’s got to be nearing four am. The bunker is still four hours out. Dean’s eyes are tired. His shoulders ache. The road ahead blurs slightly. He shakes his head, jerks himself awake.</p><p>They’ve passed half a dozen motels since he started driving. They could have stopped at any of them.</p><p>But.</p><p>Cas is wrapped up in Dean’s jacket and the blanket from the boot. His hand is tucked against his cheek, clutching the collar of Dean’s jacket close to his face. His breathing is slow and even as he dreams.</p><p>Cas has been having nightmares. Every night, for weeks now. Dean can be right there, the two of them tucked into each other’s arms, close enough to share breath, and Cas will still wake screaming from dreams of Dean dying as he fought to save Cas from the empty, of Billie’s grip on Dean’s heart killing him before Cas can paint the sigil to hold her at bay, of him and Sam failing to cure Dean from his descent into demonhood. Of Naomi forcing him to kill Dean over, and over, and over, and over.</p><p>Dean has enough of his own nightmares to feel a mirror of the absolute, devastating weight that Cas carries inside. He dreams of the dead weight of Cas’ head in his hands before Ezekiel - Gadreel – resurrected him. The fire burning Cas’ body to ash after Lucifer killed him. The empty enveloping Cas before Dean can find the words to reply to an <em>I love you</em> that he’d always longed for and could barely believe. He dreams of the mark ruling him so completely he doesn’t hold back, sees himself plunge the angel blade into Cas’ eye from inside his own body, powerless to stop it. <em>Wanting</em> it.</p><p>It’s a good night if one of them sleeps more than ninety minutes together, these days.</p><p>But now Cas is quiet. He’s been sleeping for three hours, ever since they filled in a cleansed grave and hit the road. His head is pillowed on Dean’s leg, face turned to Dean’s stomach. One hand holds the jacket tight to his face, the other rests on Dean’s hip, one finger hooked into a belt loop.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas mumbles, and Dean glances down, drawn like a magnet to an opposite pole. Cas is still asleep, face calm and relaxed. He sighs almost inaudibly, nuzzles his face closer into Dean’s thigh.</p><p>Dean rests his free hand on Cas’ head. Drives.</p><p>
  <strong>19.</strong>
</p><p>Dean needs a new suit. His old standby FBI getup lost a fight with a really angry kitsune out in Missouri. Since it’s pretty much on their route home, Dean pit stops in Kansas City to pick up a replacement. Sam’s needed some new smart shirts for a while and he figures Cas deserves some clothes that aren’t his cast-offs or thrifted, so they might as well hit up a city centre and get all the shopping done in one go.</p><p>They choose some shirts and jeans for Cas, a couple of plain white shirts for Sam. Size: moose. Cas pulls them into a sports store to get some new sweatpants, then while they’re there Dean puts some more hiking socks for those long hunting expeditions in their basket and, thinking of Cas’ propensity for shuffling around the bunker wrapped in multiple blankets, a couple of soft, fleece lined hoodies. Cas only likes wearing hoodies if Dean’s worn them before him – something about <em>smelling like home -</em> so he picks them up in his own size.</p><p>He also buys Cas a t-shirt with <em>save the bees</em> and a tiny cartoon bee on the pocket from a little independent store, just for the beaming smile Cas gives him when he sees it.</p><p>“It’s organic cotton Dean,” he says, delighted by reading the care label like the weirdo he is.</p><p>“Yeah I know,” Dean replies and Cas grabs him by the collar and kisses him, hard and fast in the middle of the sidewalk. A passerby huffs at them, but Dean could not give less of a fuck. He just catches onto Cas’ elbow, his hair, leans in.</p><p>So he’s wrapped around Cas’ little finger. That’s ok by him.</p><p>There’s a formalwear shop on a corner opposite a park. Dean buys them toasted sandwiches and coffee from a café, plus a boxed salad that Cas guilts him into, lets Cas drag him round the park for five minutes to find the perfect spot on the grass by the pond to eat their lunch. Cas feeds bits of the shredded lettuce and sweetcorn from the salad to the ducks, doesn’t actually eat any himself.</p><p>“Did you just want the salad for the ducks?” Dean asks, amused. Cas frowns at him.</p><p>“Of course, bread is bad for ducks.”</p><p>When they’re done, Cas bundles up the rubbish and carefully splits it between the nearby recycling and trash bins. Dean hooks him by the arm and walks them back across the grass to the suit shop. Maybe pushes Cas into a tree on the way and kisses the taste coffee from his mouth.</p><p>In the suit shop, Dean quickly pulls out a couple of black jackets and trousers that look right for their FBI jobs, all clean lines and understated detailing. The shop assistant flutters around him, batting her eyelashes, asking if he wants to try things on. Dean tunes her out, holds things up to Cas and asks him to rate them. Cas’ fashion preferences don’t extend past <em>anything you wore that still smells like you, Dean </em>most days, but he does know a decent suit when he sees one.</p><p>Between them they find a couple of good contenders, then Dean heads for the changing rooms. They’re pretty spacious so he tugs Cas in with him, leaving the assistant pouting behind the counter. He’s not getting a discount out of her any more, but he figures it’s a fake credit card anyway, so where’s the harm?</p><p>Dean shrugs out of his layers and into the first option. He likes it immediately. It sits right across his shoulders, cuts a pleasingly smooth line down his body when he buttons the jacket. The trousers fall a little awkwardly with his beaten up old boots, but he can picture them hitting neatly on his smart shoes. He nods slightly, mostly to himself.</p><p>“What do you think Cas, do I look intimidatingly professional?”</p><p>To his surprise there’s no response. Dean glances round. Cas is staring at him, eyes round, pupils eating most of the blue.</p><p>“Cas?” His mouth quirks up into a smirk as Cas startles.</p><p>Cas swallows, blinks. His eyes track up to meet Dean’s. He looks dazed, almost punch-drunk.</p><p>“Yes.” He finally whispers in response. “Yes, that one’s good.”</p><p>Dean’s grin ratchets up a notch. He leaves it for the minute. Changes back into his own clothes, gathers up the pieces he wants and heads for the checkout. Cas trails behind him, half tripping on his dragging feet.</p><p>Sure enough, the sales assistant is curt and unhelpful at checkout. Dean just swipes his card, gives her his best devastating smile as he takes the bag and receipt.</p><p>They leave the shop quickly, Dean literally having to lead Cas along by the hand to get him to walk. When they reach the car, Dean glances over at Cas, who promptly turns to stare pointedly off into the distance. His fingers fidget at the edge of his jacket. Dean’s smile widens as he unlocks baby’s doors.</p><p>“I’ve been wearing suits since before you met me Cas, what’s the deal with this one?” He tucks the bags into the back footwell and shuts the door. Close behind him, he hears Cas shuffle his feet on the concrete. He can picture the embarrassed pink flush staining Cas’ cheeks without having to turn around.</p><p>Dean walks around to the driver’s door, studiously not looking at him. It’s only when they’re both in the car and Dean’s starting the engine that Cas finally huffs and speaks.</p><p>“I never let myself imagine back then. I thought you didn’t… I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. So I wouldn’t let myself imagine. But now I…” Cas drops his head to the dashboard, wraps his arms around himself. “Now I’m <em>allowed</em> and you’re… you’re very distracting, Dean.”</p><p>Dean’s grin widens.</p><p>“Distracting, huh?”</p><p>Cas scowls down at the floor.</p><p>“Constantly. But especially when you’re dressed like that.”</p><p>Dean pulls baby out onto the road and aims them for Lebanon. Considers.</p><p>“I guess I should wear a suit around the bunker more often then.” He glances over and meets Cas’ gaze just as he turns to squint up at Dean in confusion. Dean grins, turns his eyes back to the road. “I mean, you know I want to give you things you like.”</p><p>Next to him he hears Cas inhale sharply, then Cas’ hand lands on his thigh, squeezes. He flicks his eyes across to meet Cas’ blazing gaze. Seals the promise with a smile and an answering press of his hand.</p><p>
  <strong>20.</strong>
</p><p>Cas points at a spit of land jutting out into the lake.</p><p>“Go stand over there, Dean.”</p><p>Dean looks up from replying to a text from Sam. They’re two hours out from the bunker, Eileen wants them to all get dinner together in the tiny pizza place in Lebanon later.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“It’s a scenic spot. I need a new phone background.”</p><p>“You… can’t you just take a picture of the lake?”</p><p>Cas gives him a classic <em>don’t be so stupid, Dean </em>look. “It has to have you in it.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes, but he starts walking. The sun is setting, shimmering orange-pink-gold off the lake water, and the trees along the shore are a riot of autumn foliage. Cas is right. It is worth a picture. He stops by the water’s edge, puts his hands in his jacket pockets and just stands, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face.</p><p>After a few moments arms slide around him and the weight of Cas’ body leans into his back. Dean turns his head, is met with a press of Cas’ lips against his temple.</p><p>“You done?”</p><p>“Yes.” Cas swipes open his phone to show Dean himself silhouetted against the hazy colours of the water. It <em>is </em>beautiful. “But let’s stay here for a while.”</p><p>***</p><p>Dean kicks his boots off, slings his legs up onto the map room table. Sam passes him a beer, and he nods in acknowledgement as he cracks open a leather-bound book that might help with the spell Sam’s determined to figure out.</p><p>“You sure this is going to help you rebuild the cosmic warding? Cause this book looks like a fuckin’ slog, man.”</p><p>Sam just nods absently, already eyes deep in his own book and sinking rapidly. Dean groans, shuffles deeper into his chair, rests his beer on the arm and tries to make his eyes focus on the printed page.</p><p>There’s a noise from the doorway and Dean looks up. Cas is framed in the arch with his phone out, suspiciously pointed right at Dean.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>Cas shrugs entirely unapologetically. “I liked how the light made you look.”</p><p>Cas is still fiddling with his phone and Dean sighs.</p><p>“New phone background?”</p><p>Cas glances up at him from under his lashes and the answering smile is a little wicked.</p><p>For some reason Dean suddenly finds it incredibly hard to focus on research.</p><p>***</p><p>Baby’s not quite running right. Dean pops the hood, shucks his flannel and sets himself to figuring out what’s got her off colour and complaining.</p><p>He’s sweaty and greasy to his elbows, but baby is purring smooth again, when his Cas alert twitches. He rubs an oily forearm over his forehead, straightens and turns just in time to catch Cas in the garage doorway, lowering his phone from taking a picture.</p><p>Dean sighs and rests a hip on baby’s chassis.</p><p>“You updating your background again?”</p><p>Cas smiles down at whatever angle of Dean he’s managed to capture this time and shrugs. “I like to look at you.”</p><p>Dean watches Cas standing there in the doorway, scruffy in an old hoody and jeans, ridiculously barefoot even on the garage concrete, so different from the suit and coat and boots that were Dean’s image of him for years, and his heart hurts with how glad he is for how little Cas has <em>fundamentally</em> changed from the walking symbol of god’s power that crashed into that barn in Illinois. He’s still unapologetically socially graceless sometimes, for one.</p><p>He still looks at Dean like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.</p><p>Dean tips his head, inviting. “C’mere Cas.”</p><p>Cas tucks his phone into his back pocket and does with a widening smile. As soon as he’s within reach, Dean snags his wrist, reels him in and spins them to press Cas into the side of the car. Cas lets him, just slings his arm around Dean’s neck for balance and stares up at him with shining eyes.</p><p>Dean never can resist those eyes.</p><p>He presses himself up against the lean lines of Cas’ body, peppers kisses over his forehead, round the curve of his eye. Cas sighs beneath him, hands sliding over Dean’s shoulders, fingers curling gently into his shirt.</p><p>Dean pauses with his mouth millimetres from Cas’ lips. “Do you ever have backgrounds that aren’t me?”</p><p>Cas squints at him and shakes his head, exasperated.</p><p>“Why would I want to do that?”</p><p>Then he grabs Dean’s head and pulls them together.</p><p>***</p><p>One morning Dean unlocks his main phone to check a text from Sam and finds his own background picture has changed. Now it’s him sitting on baby’s bonnet, beer in hand and face turned to the side, laughing as he talks to Sam perching beside him. Eileen is tucked under Sam’s arm, smiling up at his face, and Cas is leaning against Dean, head resting on his shoulder and their hands entwined between them.</p><p>It punches the breath out of Dean with the sudden realisation that <em>oh. We have this. Finally, we actually have this.</em></p><p>Dean has no idea who took it. Until he remembers Cas insisting on learning how to use the timer setting on his phone camera. For <em>I don’t know what reason Dean, it might be useful.</em> The picture <em>is</em> slightly off-angled, like Cas propped his phone on a rock.</p><p>Dean glances over at the blanket burrito that Cas has turned himself into while sleeping and shakes his head. Smiles so wide his cheeks ache.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My best friend and I share an anniversary with Cas and Dean - September 18th 2001 vs September 18th 2008. It's an auspicious date for meeting the people you love most.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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